


You Decide the Ending

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Choices, Infidelity, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a romantic relationship develops between Peter and Neal, it puts Peter's marriage to El in peril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Decide the Ending

     Peter Burke had been aware of Neal Caffrey’s handsome good looks since the very first day that Interpol had forwarded a picture of the suspected thief/forger/etc./etc. At that early point in time, what surprised the seasoned agent was the unexpected youth of the suspect. He could have been one of a million college kids, backpack in place, on their way to class. How could someone so young be light years beyond the classroom, setting out to accomplish the impossible and actually succeeding? Peter knew that the twenty-something criminal was brilliant, self-confident and, let’s not forget, foolhardy. He just didn’t expect him to be beautiful as well. Even El was suitably impressed.

     “Hmmmm, who’s this?” she murmured appreciatively one night when she saw the kid’s picture atop one of Peter’s files.

     Peter looked askance at his wife’s clearly interested expression. “He’s just the latest little twerp on our radar who is steadily making his way across Europe ‘pillaging and plundering.’”

     “He’s pretty!” El remarked with a bit of awe in her voice. “I’ll just bet he’s a handful as well as a heartbreaker.”

     “Actually,” Peter proceeded to inform her, “he seems to be attached to one particular young woman, and has been for quite some time. He doesn’t seem to stray from her side for very long.”

     “Is he even legal enough to order a beer? He looks like a teenager who should be escorting his girlfriend to his senior prom.”

     “We’re not quite sure of his age, but, nevertheless, he is old enough to commit a multitude of impressive crimes,” Peter remarked wryly.

     “So, is he going to be your latest bête noir?” El wanted to know.

     “If he comes Stateside, I’ll be on him like white on rice, and his ass will be mine!” Peter sounded more confident than he felt. Little did he suspect how prophetic his remark would prove to be in the future.

**********

     As foretold, that takedown event occurred and Neal Caffrey went away for four years—well, almost four years. Then the conman worked his magic and charmed those in the land, both far and wide. Peter was determined to be immune to that charisma. He had given a lot of thought to their proposed “deal” before sticking his neck out and having the felon released into his custody. He decided that he would use Neal to help solve crimes, but there was going to be a definite demarcation line that each of them would abide by and not cross. This was purely a business arrangement that would benefit both of them. There were going to be boundaries; work was to be Neal’s little niche, and he was supposed to stay put within that realm. But, like everything else, Neal had no respect for boundaries. Inevitably, he would trot out onto the playing field and redraw the lines time after time.

     Neal became part of Peter’s life, like it or not. Much to the agent’s chagrin, Caffrey showed up on his doorstep just one day out of lock-up, and El was enchanted. Peter felt a bit of relief when Neal seemed to sincerely respect his wife and deferentially put her high up on a pedestal. He probably suspected that Peter would kill him if he tried anything even remotely impertinent. Neal and El’s relationship seemed genuinely innocent, and certainly lacked the ups and downs of the Handler/CI arrangement.

     “You always get to play the ‘nice’ parent role,” Peter complained to El. “You don’t have to discipline him for his antics, so that’s why he likes you better.”

     El actually giggled before raising an eyebrow in Peter’s direction. “Trust me, Hon, you are the center of Neal’s world and always will be. He gets your attention by pulling your strings and winding you up. Even if it’s negative attention, he’s just happy that you are focused on him. Maybe I should be jealous.”

     Peter’s only answer was a snort.

     As the months rolled on and became years, he watched Caffrey lose the adorable coltish look and take on a persona of elegant sophistication. Suave and debonair were just a few of the adjectives bandied around by those who came to know him. However, that was just a veneer for a soul that Fate decided to torture again and again.

     Peter and El saw Neal through loss, disappointment, and hurt. They saw him broken into little pieces by the death of loved ones and the abandonment of others, and they felt a frustration born from being powerless to fix things. However, like a phoenix arising from the ashes, Neal always seemed to courageously rally, and that endeared him to El just that much more. Was Peter the only one who truly saw behind the cleverly well-constructed façade? Much as Neal tried, he just couldn’t sell that bridge to Peter.

     After a particularly dangerous op went sour, Peter watched Neal take a self-destructive, reckless risk with his life as he tried to salvage it. Peter held all his wrath bottled up inside his seething chest until he had driven Caffrey home and marched him to the door of his loft. He was furious and shoved Neal roughly inside, slamming the door behind him.

     “What the hell was that all about, huh?” the disgruntled agent demanded viciously. “Are you hell-bent on getting yourself killed on my watch?”

     “What’s your problem, Peter? I was just doing my job fulfilling the terms of our little agreement!” Neal answered just as hotly.

     “What you did was a lot more than that, Pal! You were making a statement for all to see that shouted ‘ _I’m done and I just don’t give a damn anymore!_ ’ Well, if you have decided that you want to end it all, Buddy, just take an elevator to a high floor in some office building, climb out onto a ledge, and then step out into the hereafter. Go ahead—take the coward’s way out!”

     Neal’s eyes blazed and he took a menacing step towards Peter who, with a firm hand to the con man’s chest, instinctively pushed him back against the door. Peter half-expected Neal to take a swing at him, but was surprised to feel the tautness suddenly melt in defeat from the young man’s body. Unfathomable blue eyes suddenly took on the sheen of unshed tears.

     Looking back, Peter could never fully comprehend if it was compassion or lust that made him put his arms around his defenseless CI and press a ravenous kiss to slack lips. Surprisingly, Neal responded with a hunger of his own, and clung to Peter like a lifeline, which maybe, in a way, he was.

     It was like an out-of-body experience for the FBI agent. Peter saw himself lead Neal to that wide and inviting tiger-oak bed. He saw his own fingers at work as he undid buttons and pulled down zippers. He heard discarded clothing being flung somewhere onto the floor. He saw his own hands slide over warm skin and feel Neal’s rapid heartbeat beneath a well-defined chest. The distraught young man arched up into Peter and moaned, and his handler wondered if it was a plea or a prayer. Peter took Neal that afternoon, took everything that was offered, pushing into a hot and willing body that seemed desirous of the validation of being wanted. Eventually, in the early evening hours, Peter left his partner in a deep, contented sleep and went home to his wife.

     Peter knew he had to tell El what had happened, although he doubted that he could explain the why. He could offer no excuses; he would just put it out there, and endure her justifiable anger. They would get through this. Up until now, they seemed to have been blessed with an ideal marriage; there had never been any clouds on the horizon, no attractive sirens to tempt him. Actually, maybe Peter had been the one with his head in the clouds. Even Adam and Eve, in their pure, ideal Garden of Eden, had succumbed to temptation.

     El was already asleep when he arrived home, and he thought it would be cruel to awaken her just to cause her anguish. He would tell her tomorrow. Well, tomorrow came and went, as did many, many more, and a confession of the soul never occurred. What did occur, however, were more erotic evenings with Neal that had Peter falling deeper and deeper under his spell. No, that wasn’t accurate, Peter admitted to himself. Neal was not some ingeniously, manipulative spider weaving a web in which to attract his handler. The vulnerable young man never initiated the liaisons. That was all on Peter. However, every time, Neal submitted with graceful eagerness to his handler’s advances.

     Their lovemaking was spectacularly enthralling. Never in Peter’s wildest dreams could he have imagined himself hovering over a hard, well-muscled body and being exquisitely turned on by the texture and smell of a man. The exoticness of plunging his cock into tight, dark depths and finding sexual release kept him coming back for more. Things were not always perfect. Real life would sometimes intrude into their fairytale one. Neal, a sometimes unrepentant and unreformed criminal, continued to do the infuriating Neal things that made Peter suspicious and angry. Their couplings during those fiascos were rough and punishing, but, nevertheless, the climaxes were just as stupendous. However, at night, Peter always went home to El.

     Eventually, Peter began dividing his life into two, distinct compartments in his mind—loving El and loving Neal, and he thought that he was holding his complicated existence together. He did notice that Neal had stopped coming by the house on a whim as he had done in the past, and the con man made excuses when El told Peter to invite him for dinner. Peter knew that Neal could do “duplicitous”; he had seen that often enough when he met with marks during FBI stings. Apparently, in his personal life, Neal had a conscience and refused to do it to El’s face. It was easier if he kept his distance.

     El was puzzled at first, then offended that she was being ignored. She demonstrated her miffed feelings by insidiously blaming Neal for every bad thing that happened to her husband, whether it was Neal’s fault or not. However, that never stopped her from demanding that the con man and former friend do whatever it took to aid Peter during one fiasco after another.

     “You owe him,” she told Neal with steel in her voice.

     Peter always tried to defend his CI, but that just irritated El even more, and she complained that Peter was consumed by an obsession that he needed to get over. She had no idea how close to the truth that her words had struck. Meanwhile, although Neal remained a bone of contention between them, their marriage persevered.

     Life, as always, was busy and the wheels kept turning. Peter took the job of ASAC with many more responsibilities and demands on his time. El had her ever-expanding catering business, and then inexplicably, she took on a part-time gig with the D’armitt Gallery as well. One day, she actually jettisoned “Burke’s Premier Events,” an enterprise that she had nurtured from a fledgling endeavor, and took a full-time position at the National Gallery in Washington DC. Was this the result of the proverbial mid-life crisis, Peter wondered, or did she have an innate suspicion of Peter’s infidelity and was distancing herself and striving for independence? Now El came home on occasional weekends; now Peter spent his weeknights with Neal.

     “Have you thought about taking that position in Washington, Peter?” Neal asked one evening over Thai carryout.

     Peter snorted, “I’m not interested in that hornet’s nest of politics and ass-kissing. I’m staying right where I am.”

     “But where you are is not where your wife is," Neal argued.

     When Peter just stared back into Neal’s blue eyes, Neal continued. “She’s your wife, Peter, and I’m just….well, I don’t know exactly what I am,” he ended lamely.

     “Neal, you’re not just some fling or temporary distraction. You are so much more to me than that,” Peter stressed adamantly.

     “Look, Peter, El is the one that you pledged those vows to years ago, not me. Don’t feel that you owe me anything. Other people have come and gone from my life, and I have survived. I’m tough and I will not fall apart if you live your life the way it was meant to be lived. Just go and preserve your marriage. I have broken into a lot of places during my ‘alleged’ criminal career. I don’t want to break into your marriage. Do it—make things right before it is too late.”

*********

     Peter mulled over Neal’s words, but refused to budge for the time being. His procrastination was for naught, because Fate made the decision for him. Several weeks later, there was a knock on Neal’s door early one Thursday evening. He hastily donned sweat pants that rode low on his hips, leaving Peter stretched out on the bed in the alcove. He cracked the door and was astounded and speechless to see El on his doorstep. She smiled at him and pushed through the door without an invitation, fully intending to ask him where he thought her husband might be. The smell of recent sexual activity assailed her nose, and she instinctively looked toward the bed, suddenly embarrassed that she had interrupted Neal and a female friend. When she saw Peter in a similar state of undress as the bare chested con man, she gasped, paled, and, without a word, fled the room.

     “Go after her, Peter!” Neal pleaded.

     Peter hastily dressed and flew down the stairs, but the taillights of El’s cab were far in the distance. He drove home as if possessed by a demon and found his wife, her face splotchy, her eyes red, and her disposition fuming.

     “How long, Peter? How long has this been happening?” She demanded to know.

     Peter was mortified and kept his eyes downcast. “About nine months, give or take.”

     The irony was not lost on El. “Why?—I suppose is the next question. What can he give you that I can’t? Tell me, please. You owe me the truth.”

     Peter was finally man enough to meet his wife’s accusing stare. “Hon, it just happened, and I don’t know why. El, I love you with all of my heart, but I can’t give you a reason.”

     “Do you love him,” was her next question?

     “I care about him, and I love you,” was the less than hoped for answer.

     “But do you love him?” She asked again.

     Finally some truth, “Yeah, I do.”

     “Well then, I guess the burning question is do you love me enough to give him up, Peter? Because that will be the only thing that will save this marriage, the only thing that will make us a family again. And when I say ‘family,’ that encompasses more than you and me, Peter. I was coming home to tell you that I have resigned from my job in Washington because our ‘family’ now consists of you, me, and a baby. Families need to be together—one unit, no outsiders. Neal is an outsider. I suspect that he has manipulated you with charm and allure just as he does everyone else. He knows that will keep him out of prison. I am not saying that he is completely at fault. You could have said no and cut this thing off at the knees. However, now you have to decide where your loyalties lie.”

     El had played a trump card that Peter never dreamed that she was holding. She had every right to be humiliated and infuriated. He thought that he should be thrilled at the prospect of fatherhood, but the blindsiding had left his mind in a fog. Fatherhood was the ultimate responsibility and it was daunting. A worm of suspicion began to burrow its way through Peter’s subconscious. Did El give up her personal dream and come home because she feared shouldering motherhood alone so far from home, or did she sincerely want to forge a new beginning of father, mother, and child—together as they should be? Was this homecoming out of love for him, or love for this unborn child who deserved two parents?

     Peter was all about responsibility. Was that the “why” surrounding this situation with Neal? Whatever the reason, he would do the right thing by his wife and child. He would tell Neal tomorrow.

**********

     The discussion with Peter’s lover never took place because just before dawn, he got a call from the Marshals. Neal had cut his anklet and was gone. They were mobilizing a force to track him down, but the leads were less than promising.

     “Don’t even think about going after him, Peter,” El warned. “Please, just stay right here where you belong and let some other people deal with Neal Caffrey for once. He’s not your responsibility anymore.”

     Abiding by his wife’s wishes, Peter stayed in New York and held his breath. Every time the phone rang, he wondered if a disembodied voice would be imparting the dreaded news that Neal had been shot and killed during a pursuit by the Marshals. As time wore on, he began to breathe again when that news never came.

     In six months, Peter became a new father. Much to his puzzled astonishment, El insisted that the baby boy be named “Neal.” Peter wondered at her motivation. Had the passage of time and new motherhood softened her anger at the con man? Was this her way of saying that she forgave Peter and Neal, or was this a strategy to remind Peter of his infidelity every time that he said the child’s name?

     Peter loved this little guy with all of his heart—no dichotomies there. It was pure, unconditional love with no strings or ultimatums attached. El was a good mother, and little Neal now was the recipient of her undivided attention. Peter thought this was probably normal, but he had no frame of reference. Was her continuing apathy towards him the result of fatigue or disinterest? Peter suspected that the culprit was really the chink that he had put in her heart that had never mended.

     Peter did the best that he could. Why complain when he was the one that had made this mess in the first place. He became a dedicated workhorse at the FBI, his closure rates soared almost as high as when he worked along side of Neal. He put in long hours during the workweek, but Saturdays and Sundays were dedicated to little Neal. He relished taking the baby boy by himself on long stroller rides to the park. Then he would sit and tell the uncomprehending child fabled stories of FBI cases with fantastic endings. The little boy loved listening to Peter’s voice and was a rapt audience until his eyes grew heavy and he slipped into dreamland.

     Another year followed, without a word either from or about Neal during that time. Like a habit that he could not break, Peter kept an ear to the ground for any sign of his former lover. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but, in his gut, he knew that he would know when he saw or heard it. That was why he was now avidly following the Interpol communiques that were coming in quite regularly. These missives chronicled a new audacious criminal on the European scene. The authorities suspected this ghost with no face was behind some extremely impressive thefts. As Peter read the details, he knew in his heart that Neal was responsible for this extraordinary string of robberies. It took Peter back in time, like flashes of déjà vu, as he remembered Neal’s explicitly planned and flawless heists when he was just a name and a black-and-white photo on the FBI’s crime-board.

      Peter began making notes on the intel. An exquisitely rich treasure trove of European artwork was systematically being looted with a dramatic flair. Venerable museums in France, Spain, London, and Italy had suffered devastating losses of renowned pieces by Botticelli, Canaletto, and Rembrandt, to name just a few. Authorities at the Louvre, The Prado, and the Uffizi Gallery were left scratching their heads because there was not a clue to be had. The thefts were meticulous and executed with precision. Alarms were never triggered and security feeds remained blank. An official at “The National Gallery” in London exclaimed that it was as if “The Invisible Man” had made a visit during the night and left empty wall space to be discovered in the morning.

      The crime spree had been going on for the last six months, with wide gaps of downtime between break-ins. Peter theorized that during those intervals, Neal was going about arranging the offload of his prizes, or, most likely, making plans for the next escapade. At any rate, he was lying low for at least a month or two each time—enough of a lull to ensure that other museums would become complacent and lax once again.

    A vague possibility doggedly began to take form in Peter’s consciousness. His gut was now telling him to trust his instincts, and he thought that he might know where Neal was. Of course, gut feelings were not going to cut it in the upper echelons of the FBI hierarchy. If he was going to do this, it would have to be off-book and on his own dime. Crawling far out on that proverbial limb, Peter took his annual two weeks of vacation time at the Bureau. Nobody batted an eye. However, telling El was quite a bit harder.

     “You’re going to Europe because some thief is stealing Renaissance masters?” El asked disbelievingly.

     “Yep, a lot of masterpieces, actually, and Interpol can’t get a handle on the culprit,” Peter answered his wife.

     “Did Interpol or the foreign police specifically request the FBI’s help,” was her next question?

     When Peter did not respond, she had her answer.

     “It’s Neal, isn’t it? You’ve decided that it’s him and you’re going to chase after him again,” El whispered forlornly

     “It’s my job, El. You know that,” Peter pleaded.

     “If you find him, do you plan to arrest him?” El’s question was perceptive and she thought that she already knew the answer.

      Peter just stared at her with a determined look on his face.

     “If you do find him, Peter, will you see the criminal in front of you or your former lover?”

      Again, as before, Peter didn’t favor her with an answer.

      El gave a defeated sigh and perched on the couch. “It would seem that you have a ‘lady or the tiger’ dilemma, Peter. What door are you going to choose?”

      When Peter just seemed confused, his wife explained. “The Lady or the Tiger” was an allegorical short story by Frank Stockton written over a hundred years ago. It was required reading in high school, and later on in my college philosophy class. It prompts readers to think beyond normal perceptions because it illustrates the quandary of an unsolvable problem.”

      El then proceeded to become a storyteller. _“Long ago there existed a mythical land ruled by a barbaric king. This king had a beautiful daughter who fell in love with a handsome young man much lower than her in station. When the king found out, he was livid and imprisoned the princess’ young suitor. The daughter tearfully asks her father to spare him, so the malicious and sly king devises a public trial. The boy was placed in an arena with two closed doors. Behind one door was a ferocious, man-eating tiger. Behind the other was a beautiful maiden who will wed the youth if he picked her door. Meanwhile, the young princess was just as cunning as her father, and managed to discover what was behind each door. As her lover looks up at her from the floor of the arena, she covertly indicates which door he must choose._

     Now, the dilemma that the story brings to the forefront is this: did the princess send her lover to his death or into the arms of a rival? The author then departs from the narration, summarizing for the reader various facts about the princess' state of mind and her attitude towards the woman the king chose for the arena's door. This truly muddies the waters of logic, and you begin to have doubts about her integrity and motivation. Ultimately, the reader is challenged to decide which door the princess indicated for her lover. The story ends with the famous quotation: ‘ _And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door – the lady, or the tiger?’_

     Go to Europe, Peter. You are going to have to make your own choice of doors without any subtle hints from me,” El whispered.

**********

     Peter boarded an Alitalia jet at JFK for the overnight flight to Rome. He rented a small Fiat at the airport for the drive south from Rome to the Amalfi Coast. His ultimate destination was the Palazzo Sasso, a 12th century Italian villa tucked away on the hilltop village of Ravello.

     Once upon a time, two lovers, mellowed by wine and beer and a post-coital haze, discussed where they thought they would like to spend their twilight days. Peter waffled and tried to balance logic (climate, annual rainfall, access to medical facilities), with desire (sports arenas, good restaurants). Neal’s ideal was more lofty—just an Eden that would delight his senses and his soul with its beauty and charm. He claimed that the Palazzo Sasso was his and Homer’s version of the Elysian Fields, a place where Zeus experienced perfect happiness for all time.

     Bringing his thoughts back to the present, Peter paid attention to the winding mountain road. Each turn afforded him a spectacular view of the tranquil Mediterranean ringed by quaint little fishing villages. He parked the car in the lot of the quiet hotel, but instead of going inside, he walked through the garden to a small patio in the rear shaded by a vaulted ceiling of aged beams. What his eyes took in actually made the breath leave his lungs. As if sleep walking, he made his way to a small wrought iron table and slipped into a chair. Neal had been engrossed in architectural plans that he had spread out before him and hadn’t noticed Peter’s approach. When he did glance up, his pure blue eyes widened in astonishment.

     “Hello, Neal,” Peter whispered as his hand reached out to encircle Neal’s wrist.

*********************************************************************************************************************************************

 

     Now, dear readers, I am not going to end this story by telling you Peter’s actions from this point onward. That would be me relating my own perceptions. You must choose your own door, enabling you to provide your own ending, one that is satisfying to you. There are no wrong scenarios. Just make yourself happy, and please do not hate me too much for leaving you hanging.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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